by Erin Johnson
“Not a very friendly one, are you now?” The whiskey on the cowboy’s breath overpowered her as he rounded her to get a better look. “Bit young for this business, aren’t ya?”
“My only business,” Grace glared at him as she emphasized the word, “is with the sheriff.”
“Lucky man.” The cowboy eyed Grace’s threadbare bodice. Then he waved toward a table in a dark corner of the room. “Better catch him now before he gets involved in other business.”
When Grace turned toward the corner, the cowboy latched onto her arm. “Want me to escort you?”
He may have been hoping for a simpering painted lady, but Grace had been breaking wild horses for the past four years. She yanked her elbow back sharply and was not sorry when it connected with his gut.
Breath whooshed from his lungs. He bent over, clutching his stomach. “You little . . .” he gasped.
But Grace was already striding toward the table where the sheriff was nursing a drink and talking to a buxom older woman in a frilled skirt.
“Sheriff, I apologize for interrupting.” Heat flushed Grace’s cheeks as she caught sight of the woman’s rouged face, her exposed cleavage, and the ruffled hemline of her dress, which rose higher in the front than Grace’s outgrown skirt. “I — I’m sorry, ma’am, but I must talk to the sheriff. It’s urgent.”
The woman nodded, the red feathers in her hair bobbing with each movement. She squeezed the sheriff’s shoulder. “I’ll be ready whenever you are, Johnny.” The undercurrents in her tone made Grace cringe.
The heavyset man frowned at her. “So, what can I do for you, Miss —”
“Grace Milton, sir.”
“Have a seat, Miss Milton.” He started to stand.
Grace hastily dragged out the nearest chair and plopped into it. Not very graceful, but what she had to say was too urgent for the usual manners.
“Yesterday my parents . . . my whole family . . .” Grace’s tongue tripped over the words. If she said them aloud, it would make it real. But if she didn’t, those killers would get away with what they had done. Grace drew in a breath and started again. “The Guiltless Gang. They . . . murdered my parents. And my brothers and sister.” Don’t fall apart. Tell him the whole story. Get justice. She rushed on. “Elijah Hale. He was the leader. He . . . he shot my pa.”
The sheriff’s face paled at the mention of Hale’s name. “Those are serious accusations, Miss Milton.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, though his hands shook slightly. “Mr. Hale is well known in these parts as a respectable man.”
Respectable man? Fury clouded Grace’s eyesight. She bit her lip to control her tongue and temper. A picture of Hale imprinted itself in her mind; the smiling man striding forward, his gun pointed toward her father’s heart.
The sheriff pulled a cigar from his vest pocket. He rolled it between his fingers, avoiding her eyes.
Grace clenched the wooden chair arms to stop her hands from shaking. The roughened wood tore at her tender, blistered palms and reminded her of last night. Moisture pooled in her eyes, and she blinked to prevent it from spilling down her cheeks. Stick to the facts. You can cry later. “Did you hear me? Elijah Hale killed my pa. And my ma, and my —”
The sheriff raised a hand to silence her. He had already stuck the cigar into the side of his mouth. He chomped down, twisted, and then spat the end into the nearby spittoon. The wad hit the brass with a wet ringing sound. He shifted the cigar in his mouth and then said around it, “Any witnesses?”
“Me!” Grace choked out. “I saw it all.”
Sheriff Behan concentrated on lighting the cigar. Then he blew a puff of smoke in Grace’s direction. “Not sure your word,” he said, his gaze raking her disheveled appearance, “would stand up against Hale’s. He’s one of the richest men ’round these parts.” He waved his cigar in a dismissive circle. “You bring me some proof, and I’ll consider looking into it.”
A white-hot volcano of rage erupted in Grace’s stomach. Did that badge glinting at her from across the table mean anything at all?
“Proof? Our cabin burned to the ground and . . . and . . .” Grace held back a cloudburst of tears. She couldn’t let him see any more weakness. “My family’s dead in the ground.” She sucked in air to control the tremor in her voice. “I dug their graves myself.” She held out her blistered and bloodied hands. “Is that proof enough for you?”
Something flickered in the sheriff’s eyes. Pity maybe? But he quickly shuttered it. “That’s a sad story Miss Milton, but people die every day.” He shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and leaned back in his chair again. Behan continued, his voice loaded with fake sympathy. “Lots of Injuns ’round here. Renegade soldiers. Hermits. Even coyotes. Understandable that you’d be a mite mixed up following such a tragedy.” He nodded. “You being hysterical and all.”
“I. Am. Not. Hysterical.” Grace spat out each word. Furious, yes. Hysterical, no. Although he was fast driving her in that direction. She had kept a tight rein on her emotions when she’d wanted to scream, cry, rage. She had tamped down the agony, struggled to come across as levelheaded. If she unleashed her fury now, he’d use it against her. He would have witnesses in the saloon that she was unhinged. Oh, what she would like to do to him . . .
Grace shoved back her chair and stood. She’d get no help from this snake. But she would not let him patronize her. “If you won’t do your duty, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” What could she do? No one here would help her if he wouldn’t. The volcano was about to spew. She couldn’t let that happen. Not in here. And most of all, not in front of him.
Sheriff Behan leaned toward her and splayed his fingers across the table, his face obscured by the haze of smoke. “Listen now, don’t go getting all het up. I’m sorry for your loss. I really am.” He shook his head. “You’ll need a place to stay.” He jerked a thumb toward the saloon bar where the woman he’d been talking to earlier was filling glasses. “Miss Lydia can use a pretty little thing like you. Once you’re cleaned up a bit . . .”
Grace pinned him with such a glare of hatred that his words faltered. She spat at his feet. “That’s what I think of you. And your offer.”
Fists clenched at her sides, back ramrod straight, she spun and strode toward the door. The wooden planks underfoot thrummed with the same hollowness that echoed in her chest. The sun blinded her as she stormed outside.
To get out of the relentless sun, she unhitched Bullet and sidled into the shade of an alley across the street.
“They kick you out of the Bird Cage, honey?” The cowboy who had accosted her in the bar swaggered across the street, accompanied by a friend. “Maybe if you watched that temper and cleaned up a bit, they’d take you back.”
“Wash up, take off the dirty dress,” his friend said eagerly.
“I can help with that.” The cowboy moved toward her, smacking the handle of his whip against his palm. His friend whooped and catcalled.
“Stay away from me,” Grace said, low and menacing.
The cowboy threw up his hands and backed away a bit. “This one’s a real tiger. Maybe what you need is a bit of taming, eh?” He flicked his wrist as if to snap the whip.
Grace flinched.
He laughed, and the whip whistled through the air inches above Grace’s head. Bullet let out a shrill whinny. He reared, tossing his mane, kicking out.
The cowboy leaped backward, lost his balance, and tumbled to the ground. He rolled away from the bucking horse. “Shoot that damn horse,” he shouted. “It’s crazy.”
His partner yanked out a pistol and pointed it at Bullet.
“NO!” Grace’s scream exploded from her. She threw her body in front of Bullet. She had nothing. No money. No food. No family. She would die before she let them kill her only friend.
Passersby stopped dead in their tracks. All eyes fixed on Grace. Startled ey
es. Curious eyes. Wary eyes. A few were sympathetic. Then Grace’s gaze locked with one darker than her own, belonging to a swarthy young man. His hair, as dark as his eyes, lay loose against his tan deerskin tunic.
An Apache?
A shiver ran through Grace at the thought, but as she looked closer, a message seemed to flicker in his eyes that gave her courage.
The cowboy, still inching backward on his butt, shouted, “Shoot it! It nearly killed me!”
The man with the gun gave an impatient flick of his hand. “Outta the way, girlie. That horse is going down.”
“Don’t you dare touch my horse.” Grace’s words cracked through the air sharper than the whip. Bullet’s hooves pawed the air above her head. He twisted in midair and crashed down beside her. Still quivering, his flanks heaving, Bullet snorted and nosed her. She ran her fingertips along his muzzle to quiet him.
The cowboy rose shakily to his feet and dusted off his chaps. “Get that girl outta the way.”
Just as Grace remembered the revolver still tucked in the holster on her hip, a pair of rough hands grabbed her, trying to drag her aside. She dug her heels into the dirt and refused to budge. The hands yanked harder, nearly pulling her off-balance. Grace wriggled and clawed, and Bullet went wild. Striking out with his hooves, he emitted ear-piercing whinnies as the crowd surged around the scuffle.
“Stay back,” Grace yelled, twisting away from her captors. “Give him some room.”
Her gaze ranged across the crowd and came to rest on the sheriff, who stood in the doorway of the Bird Cage Theater. Was he just going to stand there and watch? Her fury, as if surging through the narrow muzzle of a rifle, shot in his direction.
“You’re a coward, Sheriff Behan.” Her voice rang across the dirt road. “And if you won’t track down those outlaws, I will.”
The crowd stood in shocked silence. Then the swarthy young man nudged his horse past the still-frozen crowd. He wore knee-high moccasins, fringed leggings, and a six-gallon hat. As she looked closer, Grace realized he wasn’t Apache. His skin was a shade too light. His hair was too auburn. But before she could think about it more, the young man’s eyes met hers again.
“You have a strong spirit. Wish more around here did.” He glared at the sheriff, then tossed her a small buckskin pouch. “Here’s for a meal, a bath.” His voice was deep, but warm.
Then he turned to the men who had been taunting Grace. “Lay one hand on her or that horse, and I’ll hunt you down.” He stared at them until they slunk into the crowd. The sheriff disappeared back through the door of the saloon.
Before Grace could say a word in protest or thanks, the rider wheeled his horse and galloped off toward the hills.
CHAPTER 4
Grace threaded her way through the crowd, her body pressed close to Bullet’s quivering side to calm him. The palomino tossed his mane and snorted, but he didn’t buck. Knots of people drew back as they passed, many casting wary looks at the horse and disapproving glances at Grace. Whispers whooshed past her like tumbleweed blowing in the hot desert air. Grace straightened her spine and met everyone’s stares boldly, but bitterness burned into her gut like lye. Not one of these strangers had come to her rescue.
And now that she had nowhere to stay, no family . . . Grace blinked hard to stop her eyes from tearing up. No one would take her in. Her family had no real friends in these parts. They had been out on their own.
Shoulders slumped, Grace leaned her head against Bullet’s neck while fingering the pouch the stranger had given her. At least someone had cared, she thought.
But Grace didn’t want charity. If she had been thinking more quickly back there, she would have thrown it back to him.
But now she had it and had no way to return it. She pulled the drawstring open and silver nuggets spilled into her palm. Her eyes widened, though she had no idea what they were worth. Pa had always bartered horses for food and supplies. She had heard of prospectors killing each other for silver, so it must be valuable — but the young man had said to get food and a bath, so maybe what he had given her wasn’t worth much.
Grace hated being indebted to anyone. She tipped her hand and poured the nuggets back into the pouch, sighing deeply. Exhaustion and hunger swept over her in a dizzying wave. This pouch could buy her a meal and perhaps a place to sleep for the night. She had little choice unless she wanted to sleep in the street or out in the desert. And Bullet needed food and water. Grace clutched the lumpy pouch in her fist. She would have to use the stranger’s silver, but as soon as she could, she would find out who he was and pay him back.
Down the street from the Bird Cage, Grace hitched Bullet to a post and entered a slightly more respectable-looking building.
A woman, tightly corseted to emphasize the voluptuous curves spilling from her low-cut red and purple bodice, leaned one elbow on the counter and eyed Grace with suspicion. “A little young, ain’t you?”
Grace clenched her teeth. “I want to pay for a room.” She clinked the pouch against the wood and untied the rawhide string. Silver nuggets spilled onto the wood.
A greedy gleam shined in the woman’s eyes. “Most share a room, but for this,” she said as she slid her predatory fingers over the pile of silver, “I’ll give you a room of your own. Private.”
“My horse —”
“Stable’s included. Go around back to the alley. And you look like you could use some cleaning up. For a bit more, I’ll throw in a tub of hot water.”
Grace shook the leather pouch. Empty.
“Too bad. Although . . .” The woman paused, her gaze skimming Grace’s body in the tight-fitting, outgrown clothing. “You could pay for the bath in trade,” she said with a smirk.
Grace couldn’t keep the tremor of anger from her voice. “No, thank you.”
A grizzled old man a few stools away slapped a coin onto the bar and stood. “Aw, Lil, lighten up. That poor girl’s exhausted. Let her clean up and rest. Seems to me she more than paid for a room in this joint.”
He settled his hat on his head, then tipped the brim in Grace’s direction. “Don’t let Lil cheat you. You deserve a meal and bath for what you paid. And a lot more.” He raised a warning eyebrow in Lil’s direction.
Lil tossed her head back, making the feather in her hair jiggle. She dropped the silver into the silken pouch she had strung around her waist. “Keep your nose outta my business, Tex.” She turned to Grace. “You can use the tub my gals share. Down the hall from your room. Hot water’s on the house.”
Hands on his hips, Tex continued staring at her, and Lil shot him an irritated look as she added grudgingly, “And dinner’s included.”
After caring for and stabling Bullet, Grace ate the tasteless meal Lil set before her. Then, trembling from exhaustion and suppressed emotions, she wended her way up the stairs to the bath, Pa’s revolver still concealed under the folds of her skirt.
A mousy, skittish girl with a yellowing bruise on her cheek scuttled in with a steaming bucket. She used it to top off the grayish, well-used water in the hip bath. Then she handed Grace a sliver of soap.
Grace waited until the girl left, then removed the tintype from her bodice. Her family’s faces stared up at her. Ma holding baby Abby. Pa, his hand resting on Daniel’s shoulder. Grace standing between them. Zeke hadn’t been born yet, but she would never forget his face.
Pinching her lips together to smother a moan, Grace pressed the tintype to her heart. She stood, rocking back and forth, swallowing hard against the pain squeezing her chest. She pressed her lips to the picture and then set it and the gun on the chair in the corner of the room.
Slowly, she stripped off her smoke-tainted clothes and sank into the tepid water. She tried not to think of the others who had dirtied this bathwater before her. Ignoring the sting of the raw, oozing blisters on her hands, Grace scrubbed the soot and grime from her body and hair, wishing she could rub aw
ay the pain, the emptiness. Her skin reddened and grew tender, but Grace only scrubbed harder. The water cooled, but still Grace scrubbed. No matter how hard she scrubbed though, she couldn’t erase the memories that tumbled together in her mind — the cabin in ashes, the cross on the hillside.
* * *
As the night wore on, the patrons downstairs became more and more raucous. Honky-tonk piano, shouts, fistfights, and shattering glass kept Grace tossing and turning all night. Laughing, seductive voices purred in the hallway outside her room, accompanied by clomping boots and low growls.
The sounds swirled around her, creating a kaleidoscope of images that punctuated her nightmares. Smoky gaslight from the sconces in the hallway flickered through the cracks in the beadboard walls, and the muted light and curls of smoke merged with memories of the flickering flames at the ranch.
The stomp of Hale’s boots. The jingle of spurs. The thunk of a shovel.
Pounding startled Grace. She opened her eyes and blinked at the bright sunshine. Why hadn’t Pa shaken her awake at dawn? Why hadn’t Ma started breakfast yet? Where was everyone? Cracks cobwebbed the yellowed plaster ceiling overhead. Plaster? The cabin she called home had dark log beams.
Grace clutched the covers, fighting her way through the smoky haze of confusion. Soon numbness crept through her like a morning fog, chilling her, smothering her, as she remembered where she was. And why.
The doorknob rattled, shaking the chair she had shoved underneath it for safety, and Grace jumped.
“You paying for another day? If not, get out. I got a business to run!”
“I’m leaving.” The words came out choked, her throat hoarse, still clogged with sleep.
“You got ten minutes, or the stable hand’s gonna turn your horse loose,” the voice outside the door growled. “Wild thing’s been bucking up a storm.”
Bullet. Grace snatched up her clothing that had dried stiff on the chair and dressed hurriedly. She stuffed the tintype in her bodice, grabbed Pa’s gun, and raced for the stables.
